On the roof deck of their Williamsburg apartment, discussing which herbs and vegetables to plant this year, and which of last year’s plants might be salvageable, Sadie sits cross-legged and sips a beer while Marco cleans and lights the grill.

Sadie, wearing a short, fitted dress, asks, 'Honey, do we have enough coal?' in that singsong voice girlfriends sometimes use to cloak skepticism as supportiveness.

'I’ll figure it out,' Marco answers, speaking more to the small fire he is tending than to Sadie.

His hair is cropped short, and his voice has deepened from the hormone therapy.

The fire going, small but consistent, the chicken on the grill, Marco joins us at the table.

'Men get treated like s***,' he says. 'I mean, I know women get treated like s*** all the time. But like, when you’re a man, people just bump into you all over the place. You have to hold doors, but nobody says thank you. And you don’t get compliments, ever.'